Alley Cat
by PTGreat
Summary: For rubitan's super cute prompt: One of those cliche au stories where a person gets cursed and magically turned into an animal. But only when they fulfil some sort of requirement they're allowed to turn back into a human.
_Everything ached, like the growing pains he vaguely remembered suffering as a child and his earlier teen years. There was murmuring beside him, a woman's smooth, alto voice—the language was familiar but unknown, a dialect of Hindi maybe._

 _"The longer you take, bachay, the more you will lose yourself."_

Breaking the surface of unconsciousness, Dick groaned. Only the sound that came out of his mouth was more of a pathetic mrow than the pained groan of a full-grown man. And the more he took in his surroundings the more he realized everything was far, far too large. The display of ancient Hindu art that he'd been defending from Catwoman towered over him in their displays. Selina was long gone. And apparently he'd been out long enough for the cops to show, looked like Detective Bullock was the one running the investigation.

"You want me to book the cat," a newbie to the force asked over his shoulder with a cheeky half grin for Bullock.

There was a cat? Bullock, who was busy getting a statement from the night watchman, who Dick already knew wouldn't have anything helpful to tell the GPD, gave the young man a dirty look.

"Unless it talks I don't care what you do with it."

"Uhh…"

Yeah, bad idea to tease Harvey, buddy. And then the too big man was reaching for him with his too big hands.

"Woah!" or at least that's what he would have said if he were capable of speech, which apparently Dick was not at the moment.

Instead he let out an angry yowl and arched his back with a hiss, his tail puffing up. Wait. Wait! He had a tail? Why did he have a tail? Dick whirled around to get a better look but everything was off and weird and oh crap! The cop snorted as he flopped over then scrambled back onto his feet. Four feet. Paws. Whatever. No hands, that was kinda the issue here. No hands, no feet, four paws, and a tail that he really, really shouldn't have. The cop made another attempt to grab him but Dick fled, claws extended and slipping on the museum's marble floors. He needed an exit. He needed out. Geez, he needed help. Like a bat out of hell he ran for the museum's main doors, where another officer, this one carrying coffee and a bag probably full of greasy, sugary goodness, pushed the door open with her backside to make up for a lack of free hands. Dick skidded past her and out into the brisk night.

"What the—"

Dick wasn't near her long enough to know which expletive she'd gone with. He chose an alley at random to turn down, finally stopping when he was safely hidden under the flap of a musty cardboard box. Okay. Okay. He needed to calm down. He needed to assess the situation. Dick stared down at the tiny black paws in front of him, and the black tail that twitched around him. He was a cat. Why was he a cat? He tried to think, tried to recall what had happened in the museum. Catwoman was after something cat themed…except…Dick shook his head. He fell over with the motion but made no move to right himself. He still ached and his thoughts were too insubstantial to grasp, like thick fog. I'm lost, he thought hazily and fell asleep.

He'd been a cat for almost a week. Sometimes he wondered why he shouldn't be. During the day he mostly he huddled next to dumpsters, keeping out of sight. At night he struggled to navigate a Gotham he barely recognized. Going to the manor was a no go. Just crossing the road was perilous at best and who knew what predators he might run into on the way. The penthouse was just as impossible. He'd managed to get past the doorman a couple times but a cat was not well-equipped to work an elevator or open the stairwell door. The well-to-do of Gotham seemed to have an issue with dirty, beat-up—he'd had an unfortunate encounter with a "fellow" alley cat—strays in their space that required the staff to toss him out like he was a diseased pest, which Dick supposed he might be at this point. He gave up on the unwelcoming locale, and instead parked himself in Crime Alley in the hopes that Bruce would be there eventually.

He patrolled the dark alleys, still impressed with his natural night vision, dodging from hiding spot to hiding spot. Had anyone noticed that Nightwing was missing in action? Had anyone even known he was in Gotham and not Bludhaven? It was hard to believe Bruce hadn't known he was in town, but Dick couldn't remember checking in with the Cave or Oracle or anyone. Not that his forgetfulness told him anything. There were a lot of things Dick couldn't remember at this point. His ears perked up and he flicked his tail. But the Batmobile was not one of them. Bruce was nowhere in sight but Dick was elated all the same. Getting the Dark Knight's attention could even be fun.

Dick paced the area, a safe distance from the car, but froze as a crouching figure covered head-to-toe in a black wetsuit crept ever so slowly towards the vehicle's undercarriage, a small boxy item in his hand. Dick was willing to bet the creeping figure wasn't a secret admirer with a box of chocolates. He—Dick was fairly certain it was a man—carefully leaned back to view what was probably the gas line. Yeah, definitely not a box of chocolates. Dick made a running leap onto a pile of soggy boxes, onto the rusting dumpster, and landed on the figure's midsection with a yowl. He dug his claws as best he could into the slippery fabric as the guy—yep definitely a guy—cursed and jerked and dropped his not-so-nice present.

"Sonuva—fucking cat! What the hell?"

He rolled away from the Batmobile as its defenses activated and grabbed Dick by the scruff of his neck. Aw, did I mess up your night? Dick thought, swiping at the exposed bit of flesh of his face unsuccessfully. The man tossed him a few feet away, nowhere near as hard as he probably could have but Dick wasn't feeling particularly grateful and his launched himself at him again, latching onto his leg even as he pulled himself up onto the fire escape.

"For the love of—" he pulled Dick off his leg and tucked him under his arm almost too tightly. "I don't have time for this, you mangy psycho."

Dick hissed and spit and made as much of a menace of himself as possible but the guy kept him trapped and mostly under control as he navigated the decrepit fire escapes and rooftops of Gotham to the boarded up window of a mostly empty apartment. He shifted several of the old boards and threw a still yowling Dick inside. Dick landed on the far end of the room's surprisingly clean floor with a thump. The guy hopped through feet first, moving the boards back into place. Dick crouched, a low growl rumbling through him in increasing pitch.

"Who knew I had to plan for a damn alley cat?"

The man pulled off his mask, scrubbing at his face with one hand, and Dick forgot how to breathe. He took in Dick's locked body and sighed.

"Crazy thing. It's not like I'm gonna hurt you," he smiled ruefully, but his eyes didn't quite match the expression, too distant, "Though I guess that blast might have done more than singe your tail."

He tugged at his hair, a streak of white in his bangs, and looked out the slats at the Batmobile below. Jason…

"Maybe you did me a favor. Fiery explosion that he can't even see coming would be getting off too easy. He'd never know why. He'd never know that it was me."

Jason, what happened to you?

Talia was eyeing Dick like the odd presence he was, clutched in Jason's arms while the boy—young man?—told her about his little Gotham excursion.

"I didn't lose my nerve."

"I never assumed you had," her voice was calm, carefully so.

Talia knew just as well as Dick that Jason was, was damaged somehow. Not himself. He struggled to purr, to soothe Jason's nerves and his own while Jason talked.

"…I'm going to kill him. With my own hands. He's going to be looking me in the eyes when he dies. When I take him from this world."

Jason stroked him as he said it, as he promised to kill Bruce.

"Will you help me do that?"

"Of course."

She couldn't mean that. Dick could barely stand to be in the same space as this woman, would never trust her like Bruce sometimes did, but he knew she loved the man. She had to be stalling for time. Stalling for Jason's sanity to reassert itself. And it would. _It would._

 _"Who…who is he?"_

 _"His name is Timothy Drake. Robin."_

Dick sat on Jason's pillow—never mind that the man always shooed him off of it—tail swishing as he studied the pictures Jason had pinned to the wall. He knew the humans in the pictures. The grim, dark man. The smiling, colorful boy. They were important. He glanced at Jason, who was staring at them, elbows digging into his thighs, hands clenched together. Dick stretched casually and padded across the mattress to tuck himself under Jason's arms onto his lap, but the young man stood and Dick tumbled onto the floor.

"Shit," Jason tried to scoop him up in apology, but Dick swatted at him with an annoyed growl. "Jesus. Fine."

Displeased by his sabotaged attempt at lap sitting, Dick prowled the small room, his tail twitching back and forth with his irritation. Jason didn't pay him much attention. He was too intently focused on the photographs Talia had given him. Dick sharpened his claws on the shoddy wood of the windowsill, knowing it bothered Jason when he used anything but his sanctioned clawing posts. His gaze snapped towards Jason at a sudden thump against the wall. His palm slid down as he sank to the floor into a crouch, ripping a couple of the photos free from their tacks. He covered his eyes with one hand, but the tears still leaked down his face. Slowly, hesitantly Dick circled him, pressing the length of his body against Jason's bent legs. A small, choked sob escaped. Then another, and another, and another. He didn't swat at Jason when he reached for him this time, the young man's grip so tight, too tight. It hurt. But Dick just rubbed his face against Jason's arm. You're still mine, Little Wing, he tried to tell him. You'll always be mine.

Sometimes there were raised eyebrows but in general no one questioned Dick's presence, often perched on Jason's shoulder like a parrot or draped over his shoulders when Dick was feeling especially lazy. Those who didn't like to answer non-training related questions tended not to ask non-training related questions. Apparently someone had been asking questions, particularly of the battered—possibly dead—man tied to a chair, annoyingly in Dick's space. There were people in their latest not-home, people with guns grumbling and cursing in Russian. Dick hissed at the intruders, swiping at ankles and dodging out of sight when those guns were aimed at him. He was in the middle of another bout of peek-a-boo roulette when…

"Wow. Hey. Are you guys here to fix the toilet?"

He got only a glimpse of Jason before the gunfire started, loud and bright and smelling of sulfur and heat. Dick darted between legs, tripping men where he could.

"You guys better hope you didn't kill my cat."

Psh. Like they could. Humans were so incompetent. Jason couldn't even figure out his name wasn't Claws. The full form of that being Nightclaws was only marginally better, but trying to make his point by shredding whatever was around him seemed counterproductive in making his point. There was only one of the angry Russians left now, not so angry anymore, having a loud, pathetic chat with the wrong end of Jason's gun. Nimbly avoiding the mess of massacred humans, Dick climbed Jason's leg, charitably avoiding putting his claws through more than his jeans and jacket as he pulled himself onto his favorite perch. Jason bent his free arm to give him an extra ledge to work with on his trek up. Dick settled into his seat, curling his tail around Jason's necking and tilting his head, while the man tried to bargain for his life unsuccessfully. What could he possibly know that would interest Jason?

"I know where the Joker is!"

Dick hissed. That apparently.

Their lives had been even more chaotic than usual. Maybe Gotham was bad for them. Jason certainly wasn't proving to be very good for the city's status quo. He'd dropped Dick off at one of his safe houses, an old warehouse, with a fresh bowl of water and bag of open food on its side, as if limitless kibble could pacify Dick after Jason had the nerve to shut it up in here. But the nice thing about old warehouses—the only nice thing about old warehouses maybe—was the many, many ways in and out available to a spurned cat with a mission. Something was going to happen. Something big. Something awful. And like hell Dick was going to let Jason leave him here while it did. Using Gotham's rusting fire escapes to keep off the actual streets, he headed back to the apartment in Crime Alley, where the Joker was. Dick had taken great pleasure in using the disgusting man's leg as his personal scratching post. He barely even needed his claws to nimbly pull himself through the apartment's broken window. He would pick up where he left off on shredding the cheap polyester of his pants if Jason wasn't there. But he was. With company.

"—Uck!"

Jason jerked to the side as a batarang clanged off the pipe behind him and sank into the meat of his neck and shoulder in a spray of blood. Shoved to the side, the Joker laughed and spewed vitriol, the grating noise of his voice filling the room, while Batman stood there doing nothing, doing worse than nothing. Dick snarled and leapt onto the man's back, making up for his claws' inability to find much purchase in his cape by dragging himself over his shoulder to tear five bright red streaks across his jaw before Batman's reflexes tossed Dick away into the far wall. He rolled to his feet, hissing and spitting, his fur standing on end.

"Oh, god!" the Joker cackled. "You managed to find a way to win…and everybody still loses!"

He grabbed Jason's gun off the floor and hugged the bomb under his arm.

"Except me, my dark little pumpkin pies," he pressed the gun to the explosives with a massive grin. "I'm the one who's gonna get what he wants tonight. Badda bing, badda—"

With a yowl, Dick sank as many of his claws as he could into the man's face. The Joker let out a muffled shriek of pain and surprise before ripping the cat off but Dick refused to stay down. The Joker swung the gun around. He'd make him. Jason made a loud sound of protest but—bang!

All three men froze. Clutching his bleeding neck, Jason couldn't take his off of what should have been the mangled body of his cat. Instead there was a crumpled dark-haired young man, blood oozing from his shoulder, face down on the floor. And not just any dark-haired young man.

"D…Nightwing," Batman took an aborted step towards the nude body.

A fresh peal of laughed spilled out of the Joker. What the hell? Was this some kind of sick cosmic joke? The encore to his not-death? Goddammit. He'd actually named that stupid, vicious thing Nightclaws. He'd thought he was making fun of Bruce's precious golden boy, not doting on him!

"Looks like I'm getting two birds with one boom tonight!"

Son of a bitch. The Joker was getting his way. Again. Bruce wasn't stopping him. Again.

"No!"

And his fucking cat wasn't even a cat. At least that was a first.

"Yes! Doncha' just love how it's all ending? Toodles!"

Batman threw himself towards Jason and Dick just as the world exploded in fire and pain. He was uncertain how long he'd been out but he dragged himself out of the debris then dug through it frantically, desperately for his Robins, but he could only find Dick. Rubble digging into his knees, he wrapped his cape around the half-dead young man and pulled him into his arms, grateful and desolate.

 _Everything ached, like the growing pains he vaguely remembered suffering as a child and his earlier teen years. There was murmuring beside him, a woman's smooth, alto voice—the language was familiar but unknown, a dialect of Hindi maybe._

"I've just the one task for you."

Breaking the surface of unconsciousness, Dick groaned. A very human groan. His eyes snapped open to a familiar stalactite covered ceiling and he tried to roll of his feet. Dick sucked in a breath as his shoulder sharply protested the sudden pressure. A large hand, but smaller than he remembered hands being, grabbed his other shoulder and pushed until he was flat on his back again. Dick squinted at person touching him, ready to extend his claws…except he didn't have claws. He had fingers. And toes. And only two legs. Ugh. Bruce stared down at him sans cowl, his mouth turned down more than usual.

"Dick."

His head felt foggy and he wanted to shake it but that seemed like such a bad idea.

"Can you understand me?"

Psh…humans and their silly questions. He could have replied. Really. Just, words were such a hard thing to form. Speaking was weird. Humans were weird. Dick decided he didn't want anything to do with it when sleeping was so much easier. Much less weird.

The next time he awoke went a little smoother. In a manner of speaking. He humored Bruce's demands for speech after a few false starts involving some rather ridiculous noises that apparently only cat throats were capable of making correctly.

"Where's Jason?"

"What?"

Dick tilted his head, "It's not a hard question, Bruce."

The man looked away. Sad. And suddenly Dick couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. No. No no no no. Jason couldn't be dead. He wasn't allowed to be dead. Dick wasn't dead. Bruce wasn't dead. The fucking Joker wasn't dead. So Jason needed to be alive too. Dick pulled at his IV but Bruce yanked his hand back before he could get it out. No. No. Bruce didn't understand.

"Dick."

"I need to go find him," he said, still trying to get up.

"Dick stop."

"He's hurt. He's hurt somewhere. And sad," he clawed at the arms restraining him.

He needed to leave. He needed to go. Jason was out there somewhere. Bruce called for Alfred as he held him down. What would he do without Dick to purr on his chest? The butler appeared with a sedative to add to his saline drip. Why didn't they understand?

"I can't," tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks. "I can't leave him alone. He's sad. Bruce. Bruce please. He's sad."

Bruce moved Dick to a bedroom, his old bedroom just as he'd left it, in the main part of the manor but they kept him sedated. Kept him calm. Eventually the tears ran dry—it was a very long eventually—and Alfred tried to tempt Dick into eating at least a loose definition of "normal" food, even stooping so low as to offer Dick a bowl of Crocky Crunch. Dick stared at the frighteningly neon stuff simultaneously turning to mush and staining the milk a disturbing shade of green and promptly requested a fresh serving minus the Crocky Crunch. Alfred seemed both pleased and perturbed. A later dinner attempt went a little better. The baked chicken was good. He poked the brussel sprouts with his fork and accidently flung one across the room onto his dresser when it got stuck on the utensil and he refused to actually touch it. Green foods were obviously gross and not meant to be consumed by anyone, except when they were being punished. The mashed potatoes had looked promising, creamy, buttery…

"Ugh," Dick made a face. "Potatoes are weird."

Horrible things happened while Dick was still recovering, from his injuries, his damaged human-ness, but no one said anything about Jason. The glass case stayed in the Batcave, a painful reminder with new warnings added to the old for how wrong it could all go, for how badly a family could be scarred.

New York was…different. The jury was still out if it was good different or bad different. In the end it was probably just, different. Brighter than Gotham, darker than Metropolis, and miles from the dead-end that Bludhaven had been. Hands resting in front of him, Dick perched on the edge of the rooftop of an old apartment building, long since abandoned and condemned. He almost wanted to prowl the place for rats. Spend a year or so as a cat and apparently the behavior was hard to beat. He may or may not have disturbed Bruce—and at least Tim's sensibilities—by his overfriendliness with Selina a few times or his attempts to head butt Tim when he was feeling particularly affectionate with the boy. The barely noticeable sound of steel-toed boots on gravel a few feet behind drew Dick's thoughts back to his surroundings, but he kept his position, waiting.

"Considered running around as Nightwing, y'know?"

Dick whirled around, pulling back from the rooftop's edge and moving off his seat on the ledge wall as he did. His visitor was leaning next to the rotting door to the building, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a leather jacket over light body armor and black BDU pants that were likely held an arsenal of nasty goodies, but he was sans helmet, just a domino.

"Figured I could tarnish that good boy rep of yours by knocking off a few gang bangers. With a bonus of drawing the original out."

"Jason."

"Aren't you glad I didn't?" he arched an eyebrow and smirked.

"Yes?"

Was this some sorta truce? A peace offering? A hey I forgive you for not actually being a cat?

"So. Ancient Hindu goddess, huh?"

Jason tucked his hands into his pockets and strode forward to peer over the edge. Feeling awkward, Dick rubbed his arm, but he kept his eyes on Jason.

"Uh…yeah. Former devourer of children turned protector."

"With a thing for cats."

"Yeah."

"And you touched her statue."

"Fell on it more like."

Jason huffed out a not-quite laugh.

"Which turned you into a cat."

Dick winced and nodded, "Which turned me into a cat."

"And uh…" Jason scuffed his boot against the ledge. "How much of that do you actually remember?"

Sleeping in the junction of Jason's neck and shoulder to keep both their nightmares away. Curling up on his chest, lap, back, keeping up a constant rumbling purr, sometimes because things went wrong, even if they'd gone right, other times to simply revel in the fact that he could. Listening to words, daily comment and half-remembered terrors, murmured into his fur. Taking comfort in their closeness. In Jason's mere being.

"That night," when everything went to crap again, "is a bit hazy but I, um, remember most of it," all of it.

Jason turned his head away from Dick, running a hand through his hair, and Dick felt antsy, uncomfortable in his skin in a way he wasn't sure he'd really ever felt before. He'd always known who he was, as the definitions changed. He was Dick Grayson. His mother's Robin. A Flying Grayson. Bruce Wayne's ward. Robin, the boy wonder. A Teen Titan. Kory's boyfriend. Nightwing. A Bludhaven cop. Jason's.

"Right. Great."

He still wanted to be Jason's. To rub his face on the other man. To swipe at him when he did stupid things. To soak in his heat and listen to the comforting rhythm of a heart that had stopped once. And to smack him around some more because it was funny to see him sputter with indignation. It wasn't that Dick had forgotten how good it felt to be the recipient and welcome giver of casual, intimate touches. He'd just pushed it aside, pushed it away, and ignored the painful flare-ups when occasionally Bruce had ruffled his hair or clasped his shoulder.

Dick took a half-step towards Jason, then followed through with the motion and pressed his face into the crook of the younger man's neck. Jason startled a little, but he didn't push him away. He didn't push him away and Dick decided that being able to wrap his arms around Jason's middle was an acceptable consolation prize for not being small enough to drape himself over his shoulders. Jason blew out a breath and buried a gloved hand in Dick's hair, petting his head.

"Our lives are so weird," Jason muttered.

Dick hummed against his neck.

"So are potatoes."

"Wha—no. I don't want to know. Don't ruin the moment."

Dick grinned and nuzzled his jaw.

 _Everything ached, like the growing pains he vaguely remembered suffering as a child and his earlier teen years. There was murmuring beside him, a woman's smooth, alto voice—the language was familiar but unknown, a dialect of Hindi maybe._

 _"Come now, bachay. I am not fooled by this false sleep," she sounded amused. "Open your eyes or I will set you on your task with no explanation at all."_

 _"That seems a bit rude."_

 _Her full body, heavy curves almost spilling out of her vermillion robes, was a bright hue of goldenrod yellow and made the thick, dark curls spilling down her back look all the richer. She watched him move away in the nebulous blackness they were surrounded by with almond-shaped eyes like the blood of a deep wound and a close-lipped smile_

 _"Worried I will devour you, bachay?"_

 _"Should I be?"_

 _"Even if I had not long since lost my appetite for human flesh, you would be far too old for my tastes."_

 _"Twenty-four isn't that old."_

 _She grinned at him, showing off her sharp, sharp pearly whites._

 _"That's at least twenty-three years too many."_

 _"Right. Creepy."_

 _"Hm," her smiled turned kinder. "I've just the one task for you. There will be no undoing what's been done until you complete it."_

 _"Our relationship's moving a bit fast, don't you think? We haven't even introduced ourselves and you're assigning me mysterious tasks."_

 _The woman ignored him, "The longer you take, bachay, the more you will lose yourself."_

 _"And you're expecting me to do what exactly?"_

 _"Take care of your brother."_

 _"That's not much of an explanation."_

 _"No," she smiled, pleased. "It's not."_

* * *

A/N: The internet told me that "bachay" is a Hindi term of endearment that grandparents use for their grandchildren. I hope I didn't horribly misuse it.

Our mysterious goddess goes by the name Shashti or Shashthi and is possibly also Devesena, Skanda's consort. I discovered this cat-riding deity at godchecker and decided I really liked her after reading her wiki page.


End file.
